


Rain for Me

by Persisia



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persisia/pseuds/Persisia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One final spar, just for the sake of the act rather than any actual training. is the last thing Cuan remembers before his death in the Yied Desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain for Me

It seems like it’s always raining in the Manster District, always cascading silver from the sky.  But… maybe not.  Maybe only in his memories was the sky crying, crying for him and crying for tomorrow.  Is it normal to recall every sun-kissed moment as dark and muddy?  Feet slipping, tearing grass, and blue hair shaking soaked strands from a determined face; turbulent eyes, the brilliant blue of the hidden sky, blinking away drops from long eyelashes.  Yes, Cuan remembers every detail: the exact temperature of the air and the breath on his skin, the satisfying, resounding crack— thunder or the training lances?— the way his sparring partner went down, as in slow motion, onto his back, and how quick Cuan was to claim victory over him, to straddle him, pin him down with the weapon pressed gently yet firmly to the throat beneath him.  

"You lost your balance," he whispered in mock-disapproval.

And the smile he received in return… it was radiant enough to bring down the rain, harder than ever.  Because he won, as they both knew he would, and Cuan couldn’t help but to smile back, to lean down gently and introduce their rain-softened, glistening lips.  This close, he couldn’t see the hurt and betrayal in those eyes.  It would sneak in soon enough, like a thief after the treasures of their hearts.  But for now, the rain was heavy, sheeting, a curtain to separate them from the world.  Neither of them minded how thoroughly soaked they were, how cold it was, because between them it’s only dry and warm and safe.  There’s no war on the horizon, no goodbye waiting at the end of the night.  

Cuan remembers this clearer than the rain he feels now, born of the clouds in his eyes.  He remembers careless hair and serious, dark eyes, unwavering loyalty from the first day on, whisperings of how the prince prefers to fondle boys over the smooth curves of a woman’s breast, wind  ruffling hair with the scent of rain to come.

It wasn’t always raining in the Manster District, but it might have been when he left, and it certainly must be now.  Never had training been so intense as that day.  Never had Finn made such a mistake as to fall, clumsy as a child— and never had Cuan praised him for it.  But it was like a gift for them both.  A “Good luck, I’ll miss you” gift to Cuan; a “Farewell, I only wish I could spare you the pain to come” in return.  

It’s so hot now.  He wishes it was raining here to wash away the dust and grit and blood and anguish.  Ethlin has already fallen.  The Gae Bolg is lost, Altenna is taken, and there is nothing he can do but to perish, to be lost to sand, send his wishes to Sigurd’s plight, to pray for his daughter’s survival at the hands of his enemy, and to hope with everything left of him that Finn will be well. 

Because he knows.  He knows Thracia will invade.  He can only hope that his most trusted knight can hold them off.  That weighs more heavily on his mind right now than Sigurd and the aid Cuan failed to deliver.  Is it so wrong of him?  He’s spent enough thoughts this day on Sigurd.  His last thoughts are not of his closest friend and the perils he is struggling through, but of stormy skies, stormy eyes, and the thunderstrike clashes of old, breaking training weapons.  He wants to be there now, in the momentary carefree company of a young knight who never once let him down, who would have followed him to hell and back on nothing but love and tomorrows.

He gives in, closes his eyes, and fades into the downpour.

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this, it had been raining for literally a month straight, at least, without pause. That was inspiring on its own.


End file.
